


There's a Monster at The End of This Castle

by americanjedi



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen, Horror, I've tried very hard not to spoil anything in the tags, No Spoilers, Renfri's Brooch, Spooky, Symbolism, Unreliable Narrator, all three are valid, call up your english teacher, no beta we die like men, there are at least three ways of interpreting the story, there's going to be some literary analysis in the house tonight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americanjedi/pseuds/americanjedi
Summary: Geralt's on contract to slay the monster in the castle.  Jaskier stands on the marble floor in his bare feet and watches.  Renfri's brooch is in the bard's hand, Renfri's brooch is hanging from his neck.  Geralt needs to find the monster, it's dangerous.  Geralt needs to protect Jaskier, he doesn't understand the danger he's in.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 66





	There's a Monster at The End of This Castle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it's what my heart just yearns to say](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561143) by [chasing_the_sterek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_the_sterek/pseuds/chasing_the_sterek). 



> I've written things because they need to be written in a flurry of possessed inspiration and I've written things because it was something that I wanted to read. I read the summary for chasing_the_sterek's lovely fluffy story: 'it's what my heart just yearns to say' and both happened. (You can find the story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561143) I tried to get in contact with them because fanfic of a fanfic is one thing but a remix of an active author needs permission. Hopefully one day I'll get that permission and I can post the remix version which I like best. 
> 
> This is not that version however, this is just a tribute. This is still one of the favorite things I've written, it's weird, it's all context clues, and it's spooky.

Jaskier is small under the vaulted ceiling of the main hall, the heavy velvet of the hanging banners are too good quality to molder yet, but they are dark with dust. “If you could have one blessing,” Jaskier says, eyes lit bright by the torch in Geralt’s hand, “What would it be?”

Geralt looks at him. Renfri’s brooch is smooth and hand-warm in his palm, edges smooth and rounded from careful crafting. It’s been with him for a long time: a little over ten years. It fits his palm like it’s an extension of his body, the stones catch the candlelight like they’re winking. Jaskier’s words are so precise, enunciated - recited, that they have to be from something. A play or a ballad, an epic from the blessed paradise of Oxenfurt. The inside of the castle is cold and gray, he feels like he’s in a cave, the way the dark wraps around him like walls of stone, a hollow in the earth.

“Is that from one of your songs?” Geralt asked him.

Blinking in genuine surprise, Jaskier pulls back to look at him as though a view further back would improve him somewhat. “Why would it be from one of _my_ songs?”

Geralt doesn’t know anything about art. He understands it as little as it understands him. He can read enough to do his work but finds anything other than the most straightforward of records to smack of dishonesty. A frigid wind whips its way viper fast through the cracks in the wall. The feeling of having his skin shredded by the cold is so intense he almost touches is face to see if he can feel the twisting ridge of his cheekbone through the slivers of flesh and muscle. 

Jaskier is clapping as he sings on a determined mission to go through all the verses of Fishmonger’s Daughter that he knows. There was the faun, the dragon, the witch – which had been particularly dirty, and other verses on and on until Jaskier faltered.

Geralt clears his throat as delicately as he was able. “Acted like a whore for a big manticore.”

The bard’s smile grows huge, his eyes glowing with a joy that filled Geralt with an equal mix of delight and terror. He throws his arms around Geralt’s neck and made a sound like a laugh, like sunrise, like Geralt is a person. “I knew you’ve been listening to me! All these years and I had a budding bard all along!” 

The firelight tints Jaskier’s pale skin toward green, he looks like a god of spring time. They hold hands and dance round and round and round. In Geralt’s long life he can’t remember laughing this much or this hard, or even just indulging in something so silly. Jaskier is smiling, as he moves so quick in Geralt’s arms, a shadow that’s crawled its way up from the ground to have its go of a life.

“Eskel, what are you doing here?” Geralt asks. “Did the Countess not tell you I had taken the contract?” Lettenhove is bright and loud, a thriving city but one that is not so big that there should be a mix up like this.

Eskel stares at him. His silver sword is in his hand gleaming with oil.

There is a rustle and Jaskier emerged from the dark, picking through rubble with his soft broad bare feet, there’s nothing wrong with them but to Geralt they look like a child’s feet for all that there is hair on the toes. Jaskier should have better shoes on, where are his boots? “Hello Eskel,” Jaskier says, his voice soft in a way that is strange, that makes Geralt’s head hurt. “Come sit by the fire with us.” 

Eskel looks between the two of them, nods. He doesn’t look right, there is something off about him.

Geralt needs to finish the contract, he should finish searching the castle but he hasn’t seen Eskel in what seems like forever and Jaskier is as likely as not to trip, fall, and get himself killed. Doesn’t he know there’s danger here? He puts a hand on Jaskier’s back, pulling him close to his side as they walked so they had to walk in step not to fall over each other. For a moment the bard looks enraged, feral, and then his face smooths and calms.

When they get back to camp Geralt feels enraged himself. “Jaskier! I told you not to let the fire go out! You know there’s a monster in the castle!” his voice is too loud, he’s shouting too loud. “You’re a moron at the best of times, but I thought I could expect you to have the good sense not to sit in the dark waiting to be killed! You could be hurt, this isn’t a fairy tale!”

Eskel moves past them, rearranging the fire and getting it going again. He seems unnerved. It’s not like Geralt to lose his temper like that. Geralt sits Jaskier down and arranges him in place, smoothing down the collar of his camisole loose and open and is half-tucked into those colorful trousers of his. The sleeves are red, the sleeves are so red. He wants to sit next to Jaskier but he is too angry so he paces until he calms.

He can’t speak to Jaskier without losing his temper so he speaks to Eskel. “We’ve hunted together before,” he says. “It’ll be pleasant to do again. I’ll even split the money with you, it’s no problem.”

Eskel looks at Jaskier first, Jaskier’s back is to Geralt so the bard’s expression is obscured. The dark line of leather Jaskier uses to hang Renfri’s brooch under his shirt looks like a wound against the back of the bard’s neck. A wound in the dark black with blood. There is an impulse to stare and an impulse to tear his eyes out, he does neither. Then Jaskier turns to face him. “If you could have one blessing, what would it be?”

“I don’t have time for your recitations,” Geralt tells him. “Eskel, shall we?”

“Yes,” Eskel says, but he doesn’t seem as happy about it as Geralt expects. 

Pointing at Jaskier, Geralt says with as much menace as he’s able. “You don’t know what the monster could do to you out there in the dark. Stay. Here.”

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees, easy and turns his head away again. He speaks to the fire in a light dancing voice. “Remember Eskel, Geralt has always been a better swordsman than you.”

It’s an odd thing to say, but Jaskier has always been an odd duck.

When he and Eskel wander far enough away out of earshot, Geralt puts a hand on Eskel’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright?” Eskel looks at him with open shock, he looks stunned.

He doesn’t know how to say Eskel looked hesitant to go with him on the hunt. Doesn’t want to imply that his feelings were hurt or something equally ludicrous. Witchers don’t have feelings, they don’t care about people. “Do you have enough coin? You’re handling things?”

“Yes, Geralt,” Eskel says slowly as if trying to feel his way toward what Geralt means. “I have enough coin.”

“Because if you need this contract, it would be alright, I’d let you take the money. I wouldn’t want Jaskier to get a big head, but he makes enough singing that it would be okay. We manage fine.”

Eskel stares at him. After it’s been so long Geralt is afraid he misspoke, Eskel nods at him, slaps his shoulder. They patrol for a long time, talking to each other. In an attempt to cover his previous misstep, he asks about Lil Bleater. It’s good to reminisce although its clear something is weighing on Eskel’s mind or perhaps he hit his head, Geralt suspects that might be the case. There’s white in Eskel’s hair. That happens sometimes when there’s been a cut to the head.

Eskel will tell part of a story and then ask Geralt about it or he’ll get a detail wrong and Geralt will have to correct him. Each time such a sad, hurt, hopeful look comes over Eskel’s face that Geralt doesn’t want to say anything about it. He’s not good with words. Eskel doesn’t even remember how long it’s been since they saw each other last. If Eskel’s memory is going how could he hope to help him. They walk through the ballroom, up the stairs to duck in and out of the bedrooms, looking under beds like they’re children playing Hunt and Snare in the barracks when the master witchers aren’t paying attention. The castle must have been beautiful once with its bright colored stained glass and its marble floors, the room full of dried flowers, red-brown sheets, and the piles of sheet music. Now it smells like an old tomb, skin turned to paper and bones to old wood. There is white in Eskel’s hair. This makes his head hurt again. Eskel goes to open a door, but Geralt saves him. “There’s a cave in on the other side, it’s quite a drop. A step through the door and you’d fall to your death.”

Eskel looks at him just like he’s been looking at him all night. It’s like a joke in a foreign language and it makes him uncomfortable.

“It’s hidden again,” Geralt finally says when the night has begun to tilt its way into very early morning. The monster is sly, it doesn’t want to be detected. “We’ll have to search again tomorrow.”

Eskel claps him on the shoulder, “Sure. I can set up camp next to your fire in the front hall.”

“Jaskier better be there when we get back. I’m tiring of his wandering,” Geralt said.

“Why don’t you tell him that staying by the fire is the one blessing you want?” Eskel asks, mouth quirking up at the joke.

Geralt slams him against the wall so hard that for a moment he thinks he may have killed him, but he is so angry. He is so angry. He doesn’t care. It should hurt.

“Don’t you say that to him!” Geralt roars, he doesn’t recognize his own voice. He’s never sounded like this even at his most monstrous. “Don’t you _ever_ say that to him!” He can’t cry, witchers can’t cry but he howls against Eskel’s chest. He howls like the cold wind with its mouth full of venom.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he tells Jaskier as the bard follows along behind him with shadow soft footfalls. “It’s dangerous, you’re going to get yourself killed.” The bard’s shirt is so red, it’s like a flame to a dangerous, vicious moth. He keeps telling the bard. There is a monster, it will kill him if it’s able to, it can’t be taught or trained or tamed. It is a monster, it destroys things. It destroys people like Jaskier who are human, who can be killed in so many stupid ways.

“I need material for my next ballad,” Jaskier replies, he almost seems to dance as he walks. He holds Renfri’s brooch in front of his face so it looks like it’s smiling at Geralt and then moves it to reveal his own smile. Geralt smiles back at the bard’s silliness. Jaskier is a living illusion, looking dainty and fragile until someone stumbles too close and realizes how broad in the shoulder and tall he is. The man is a sort of magician. “It’s called the Witcher and the Brick Wall.”

Geralt can’t help being curious. “Does he climb the brick wall?”

“No, he bangs his head against it.”

Geralt stops to look at him but Jaskier just smiles and tucks Geralt’s hair behind his ear. It makes Geralt feel odd when Jaskier does things like that. When he’s kind. It makes Geralt afraid although he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know how to act around Jaskier. He doesn’t know the rules of engagement. He’s holding Renfri’s brooch in his hand. He’s had it for ten years. It’s been a reminder a weight on his back, longer than he expected – ten whole years without being lost or stolen. He has a habit of losing that which is most precious. He had been worried it would slip away by misadventure, that he’d wouldn’t listen or be too slow to protect it – things of value were chewed up and spat out by the world, but no. The brooch lasted, his knew its shape in his hand. He could pick it out blind from a pile of gold, from its weight on the swing of a sword, from the way its shape made it smile at him in the dark. Jaskier asked about it of course. Jaskier was always so curious about the mundane parts of being a witcher. 

What Geralt ate, how he made his potions, why he sharpened his sword so often.

It is part of being careful. Geralt might yell but he has never done anything to hurt Jaskier.

His head hurt.

He has never done anything to hurt Jaskier.

His head hurt.

HE HAS NEVER DONE ANYTHING TO HURT JASKIER.

Jaskier takes his hand. He is barefoot and his shirt is so red. He puts the brooch into Geralt’s hand.

“Geralt,” he says. “If life could give you one blessing.”

A woman with dark hair is in the entry hall talking to Jaskier. It makes him feel weird, to see a stranger talking to the bard.

“We have a visitor,” Jaskier tells him. His fingers are curled around Renfri’s brooch, it doesn’t bother Geralt. It’s big enough to fill a hand but not small enough to make a fist around. Jaskier is tactile, he likes to touch things to understand them. He touches the little potion bottles to understand them, he touches Geralt’s armor to understand it, he touches Geralt’s face to understand it. Jaskier will give the brooch back when he’s done.

“Hello,” he says gruffly, usually that’s enough.

She just blinks at him, her eyes are a startling shade of purple. Everyone just _looks_ at him. “Hello back.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt tells the bard. “It’s one thing to have a conquest in every city, it’s another to bring a woman to a place where there’s a monster.”

“You don’t know me,” the woman says. Her dress is odd, he’s never seen anything like it. He doesn’t pay a great deal of attention to women’s fashion but even he would notice how odd her dress looks.

“No offense miss, but I try to stay as far away as from Jaskier’s bardic romances as I can.” Something occurs to him. “Are you the Countess de Stael?”

She makes an odd noise like she swallowed a peach pit. “No, not the Countess of Stael.”

“Geralt’s memory has been a bit take it or leave it,” Jaskier says, shrugging. 

Geralt says, hurt in a way he can’t articulate. “I remembered the Countess of Stael, didn’t I? And you only mentioned once that you met her at the festival of yours. My mind’s like a steel trap.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the woman muttered to herself.

For the next few days he runs into her everywhere, poking around with an odd lantern. “What’s that?” he asks her.

“That’s right,” she murmurs. “After your time. It’s just a lantern, a more modern version. Lasts longer.”

He can see that, he’s not a rube. He’s been around, he’s seen things. “I don’t know what Jaskier told you about magic and adventure, but I’m on a contract. There’s a dangerous monster here. You should be careful.”

“Alright,” she agrees. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

In the morning there’s a pile of molten metal on the floor of the great hall, there’s a fire that’s big enough he has to pull Jaskier back from it. Jaskier is just standing there watching because of course he is, nothing on his feet, no armor, nothing to defend himself with but Renfri’s brooch in his hands.

“What are you doing?” he roars, he isn’t sure who he’s roaring at.

The woman stares at him. Why is everyone always staring at him? She looks at him with his arms holding Jaskier behind him but she speaks to the bard. “I thought it had to be his swords. What else could it be? Jaskier, what is it keeping him here? I’m running out of things to burn.”

“Then stop burning things!” Geralt yells at her.

“How should I know?” Jaskier replies, dull and mulish. “That’s the sort of thing a _friend_ would know, not me.”

“Jaskier,” she says, her voice turned dangerous. “You have to stop this.”

“Half my life,” Jaskier tells her. “ _Half of my life_. I’m not stopping anything.”

“Jaskier,” she says, the word like a drawn sword.

Jaskier’s shoulders drop in defeat, he holds his hands behind his back with his fingers tucked into the opening of the brooch. “You think I don’t know how this turns out? What we’ll become? It isn’t me, alright? I’m too vain to allow myself to…” He looks at Geralt with a crooked smile. “I guess Geralt does value my companionship after all. I appreciate your help, Yen. But. This is better than it was at the beginning. At least he’s stable now. I’m keeping him stable. He’ll understand when he wants to understand.”

Who were they talking about?

“Alright,” she says. She rubs her face with her hands. “Alright. I guess I’ll check in in a hundred years.” 

Jaskier smiles at her, his expression full of relief.

The woman hugs Jaskier and she seems to want to hug Geralt as well. Geralt isn’t used to anyone hugging him but Jaskier and he doesn’t know her. She feels dangerous. She seems unhappy but she leaves.

There is a monster with a silver sword. Jaskier is fleet of foot even without shoes. He runs, away from the fire but toward Geralt. He moves as though carried on the air. He is beautiful, like an arrow set loose. The cold wind screams and whistles its way through the cracks in the castle walls. The relief on Jaskier’s face when he sees him almost knocks the air out of Geralt’s lungs. Ducking his head the bard slides like silk, like a whetstone along a blade under one of the witcher’s outstretched arms to hide behind the wall of muscle and armor Geralt creates just by standing still. Geralt can’t find his swords, so he leaps on the monster with his bare hands. The cold wind cuts into his bones, into his skin, into his gut.

Geralt has always been good at defeating monsters, even when he didn’t want to be.

Jaskier takes him by the shoulders and leads him back to the fire. He sits him down. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Jaskier will take care of everything. Just sit right there and look at the fire and here’s Renfri’s brooch and just- Think witchery thoughts.”

Geralt looks up at him. He wants to ask what’s wrong, he wants to ask why Jaskier is acting like that, he wants to ask Jaskier to stay by the fire. He holds Renfri’s brooch in both hands. It is familiar. He’s had it for ten years. They would sit by the fire and Geralt would sharpen his sword with it smiling up at him and Jaskier would sing and Roach would nibble on the leaves of low hanging branches. It was a reminder that he must always be careful. “Where’s your lute?”

“Some place safe,” Jaskier says. “I know every secret hidey hole in these halls.” For a moment, Jaskier presses their foreheads together. “You are Geralt of Rivia. You’re Geralt of Rivia, okay?”

“I know who I am,” he says.

Jaskier hugs him tight for a moment and then runs off into the dark.

Geralt wants to finish his contract quickly. He worries about Jaskier who has barely any sense to speak of and acts like he has even less. The monster here is dangerous, wicked. It could kill the bard with a word. Jaskier’s going to get himself killed. There’s something wrong with the potions in Geralt’s bag. Some of them are missing.

Are they? His head hurts.

Where are his swords?

Jaskier stood under the vaulted ceiling of the castle. His feet are bare, his sleeves are so red, there’s a sword in his hands held out and offered to Geralt. The witcher examines it, it’s been well-tended, cared for. Its pommel is different than he’s used to, a cat’s head is at the end. It is a silver sword though, it must be his. Geralt hangs Renfri’s brooch on its leather tie around Jaskier’s neck and smooths it flat against his chest. Jaskier’s smile almost falters, his body bowing as though under the weight. The brooch is finely made and smiling, he’s had it for ten years. It’s a remarkable brooch, he can’t hold onto anything for ten years. Witchers don’t have treasured possessions, to treasure something is to beg the universe to snatch it away. Loving something is just begging for destiny to swoop in with death on its wings. Things are so fragile. But. It’s a good brooch. As familiar as a shadow.

Jaskier smiles at him, standing so still by the firelight. His skin is so pale and his sleeves are all red. The flames are bright. It’s a decent fire, it’ll keep the monster away. “Geralt,” he asks. “If life could give you one blessing, what would it be?”


End file.
